


Passing On, Passing Over

by calloftheocean



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Aziraphale is a ghost, Bittersweet Ending, Crowley has a motorcycle, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Eventual Smut, Human AU, M/M, Sadness, but there's only 5 chapters so not too long of a wait, lots of melancholy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27105241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calloftheocean/pseuds/calloftheocean
Summary: Crowley and his friends visit a burnt-down, abandoned bookshop that is said to be haunted and try to summon the ghost of the one victim of the fire.Suddenly Crowley is stuck with a stranger only he can see, and decides to help Aziraphale move on.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 100
Collections: Apple-bottom Jorts, Racket’s 13 Days of Halloween





	1. Ghosts

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! So this is the first fanfiction I've ever attempted to write and it's taken over my soul and body.  
> Thanks so much to [Noxiraphale](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/noxiraphale) for cheering me on and yelling with me!
> 
> All the chapters in this are based on prompts from racketghost's [13 Days of Halloween](https://racketghost.tumblr.com/post/628733325157302272) prompt list!
> 
> This chapter also has some art I made! You can find it [here](https://call-of-the-ocean.tumblr.com/post/632431440223698944/show-chapter-archive)!

A chill runs through the air, the bite of the wind would be able to make tears well up in one’s eyes. A building stands alone at the end of the street. The streetlights don’t reach here.

Crowley blinks hard and follows the three figures advancing towards the old building in the dark. There is a hole in the fence surrounding the building. It has been there for years, but nobody had ever cared enough to fix it. The three figures slip through and Crowley follows after them. Ahead there is a pathway leading around to the unofficial entrance, worn down by many feet dragging over the soil until no grass would grow anymore. 

As Crowley and the others turn the corner around a bush grown over the makeshift pathway, the building comes into better view. He stops for a second to get a better look at it.

It looks run-down, long abandoned. The bricks above the windows are blackened, bits of pieces of wood and brick lay on the ground, rotting away slowly, black either from the darkness or grime, Crowley can't tell. There is a darkness lingering just behind the broken windows, a seemingly impenetrable wall of shadows that cloak the inside of the building. 

The three figures stop at the front of the building, where bricks and logs have been stacked up by different people over time for easy access to the window. Crowley can hear them talk in voices too loud for the time of night, can see them punch each other, and clink bottles together. They turn to him, and one of them makes a wide-reaching gesture for Crowley to join them. He hurries to close the distance, the building looms over them, as if keeping a watchful eye on them.

“Why’re you always lagging behind, huh?” Hastur says. His light hair is stark against the dark of the wall behind him. He leans heavily against Ligur, who rolls his eyes and clicks his tongue. 

“Never mind him, he gets rude when he's had too mich to drink. You have the–” he gestures vaguely, “–things?” 

Crowley turns his back to them to show off the backpack, stuffed not only with various glass bottles that had once contained beer, wine and vodka, but also candles, chalk, and a firelighter.

“Now remember I don't know shit about this,” he turns back around and grins at them, “but I just googled it and I think i know how it works now.”

There is a sigh to his right, and Crowley turns his head towards Bee. They're pursing their lips at the makeshift entrance and have crossed their arms. “Just know if this place isn't spooky, I’m suing all of you for wasting my time.”

“They said _spooky_ ,” Hastur snickers, “you're such a dweeb, Bee.” An icy glance silences him.

Crowley snorts and nods towards the heap of trash. “Let's get in there, then? See if it's worth your time, my Lord?” He bows and holds out his hand to help Bee climb in. They swat it away like a pesky fly and crawl up themselves. Hastur and Ligur follow after them, stumbling multiple times, holding onto each other to regain their balance.

Crowley rolls his head back to look up at the dark shadow of a building one last time, before he climbs in after his friends.

He reaches the window and jumps in. The floor under his feet moans terribly, all light from the moon outside seems to be swallowed. Hastur and Ligur have already made their way to the middle of the room, their flashlights illuminating the various rubble and trash on the floor, falling on broken down bookshelves that cast long shadows on the walls. Bee is still standing somewhere closer to the window, neck craned, looking up at the high ceiling. Crowley pulls a flashlight out of his pocket, turns it on, lets the small stripe of light dance over the floor.

When Crowley takes a few steps through the rubble on the ground, all sounds of the outside are drowned out. The building has been abandoned for as long as Crowley can remember, nature has started taking back the place. Yet, aside from the smell of mildew and old wood, there's still a faint hint of smoke in the bursts of wind that rattle through the place.

He walks up to Bee, copies their pose, looks up to the ceiling. There is a glass dome, broken down by a harsh fire and time withering on. The second story of the building is mostly collapsed.

“This was probably beautiful once,” they say dreamily, and walk away towards Hastur and Ligur, who are already making space in the middle of the room.

Crowley lets his eyes meander over rubble,wooden planks and empty glass bottles. All signs that this is a popular spot for drunk people to go to after crappy parties, scrawl some graffiti on the wood, play pranks, do filthy stuff in the dark corners behind the shelves. There's remnants of the use of this place over the past decades. but there's also other things here, remnants of what this place used to be before it became a place smelling of burnt wood and lost innocence. Shelf after shelf circles a big free space in the middle. Most of them are broken, burnt, tipped to the side. Some books litter the floor, no more than a shell of what they used to be, burnt first, then not taken care of for years and years. The shadow of a carpet, no more than a dark stain on the floor. Tiny metal statues, half melted. And, behind one of the shelves, an old sofa. Or, the frame of what used to be a sofa.

_This was probably beautiful once._

Crowley just stands there for a minute, lets his eyes drift over the black walls, listens to the wind howl through the cracks in the walls, rustling at the windowsills. He almost misses the small shimmer between some of the wooden planks when his flashlight passes over them. His legs carry him over to the small reflection, he leans down and digs something out between the rubble.

Cool metal presses in his hand, feels familiar in its weight. He holds the thing up to his face, a gold ring, looking well worn but still beautiful. There are wings on the top, it almost looks like a small angel resting on the golden band. He slips it on the forefinger of his left hand, turns it to watch it glitter in the light. His hand is too knobbly, his fingers too long, his skin the wrong tone for the gold of the ring. But there is something enchanting about it, and he decides to take it home, put it on a string and wear it as a necklace. Until then, his finger will have to do.

_How come nobody has ever seen this before, taken it? How long has this been here?_

Then he snaps out of his daze, turns back to his friends and Bee waves him over. He hurries to join them and sets his bag down, shoves his flashlight in Bee's hand and kneels down to dig out the candles lodged in between the empty beer bottles. Meanwhile, Ligur pulls out a nicely shaped bottle, some kind of dark liquid sloshing inside. 

"I don't know about you guys, but I'm not nearly drunk enough for this." He unscrews the bottle and downs a few healthy gulps, before holding the bottle out to the other three. 

All of them sit in a circle and pass the bottle around while Crowley lights all the candles and puts them up in their midst. When he's done, he already feels a warm tingling in his stomach and a lightness to his head. He lets himself fall back on his butt and grins as the bottle is passed to him once more.

"So what... moody lighting, the whole biz, and now we summon a ghost?" Bee asks and takes the bottle from Crowley.

"I still dun't blieve in this. It'll never work, I tell you" Hastur says.

"Oh, don't be such a sourpuss. You want it to work too, admit it!" Ligur punches Hastur's shoulder affectionately. All he gets in response is a grumble. He smiles and reaches in his coat pocket, pulling out a cigarette and offering it to Hastur. "So, what'd we do now, o mighty summoner?"

Crowley realizes he's the one who's meant approximately five seconds too late and Hastur coughs out a dirty laugh. He lights his cigarette on one of the candles and inhales deeply, then blows the smoke towards Crowley with a smirk.

"Uhn, right. Sure. I just googled it a few minutes ago too, so don't pin me down on it. But we gotta hold hands and, yknow, I'll try to summon the ghost of... whoever the poor kid was who died in this fire-" Crowley remembers the big pillar of smoke rising from the shop, the one his mother used to visit with him. A boy had been trapped in the flames, the radio speaker had said. He hadn't made it. Crowley had been six years old at the time. 19 years ago now. "-and then we talk to him, and then we gotta say goodbye and 'release' him." He shrugs at the last words. All of them know this is never going to work, they're just a bunch of drunks messing around.

Bee grins and takes Hastur's right and Crowley's left hand in theirs. "Get on with it then," they say, their eyes shining with some sort of barely contained excitement. Crowley holds out his right hand to Ligur and watches as Hastur and Ligur interlock fingers as well. He closes his eyes and sighs, has already opened his mouth to start. He pries one eye open and then the other, huffs out a small, apologetic laugh.

"Oh, I forgot. We all gotta close our eyes too."

When he's sure everybody has their eyes closed, he closes his own again, lets his mind focus on what he knows of the boy. Died in this bookshop 19 years ago. He was a member of the Fell family, one of the most influential families in this town. The youngest brother. He remembers the black-and-white picture in the paper of the boy’s father and siblings, and doesn't remember the exact words from the article. 

Finally, when he feels his mind is focused enough on the deceased boy, he lowers his voice an octave and says in a booming voice, 

_“Spirit show yourself, spirit reveal, spirit come to me so I know you are real!”_

The words don't sit right in his mouth, they feel too dramatic and stiff. Just some words copied from some witchy website about ghost and demon summonings and other stuff like it.

Silence stretches over the four of them, then. The wind has stopped rattling at the windows, the silence of the night seems deafening for a second. Then the wind starts up again, brushing the long strands of Crowley’s hair out of his face, making him hold back a shiver and let out a tiny sigh. He forgot to look up how long to keep his eyes closed, doesn't remember whether to talk first or let the ghost speak first. _Wait, does the ghost speak or does it just flicker candles?_ As he's still processing, the alcohol fogging and slowing his thoughts, a steady coolness settles over the entire room, reaching down to his bones. He doesn't manage to hold back the shiver this time.

"Told ya it wouldn't work," Hastur says, and Crowley nearly jumps out of his skin. He opens his eyes and glowers at Hastur. They all let go of each other's hands hesitantly and Ligur laughs.

"'Course not. Did you actually think it would? This is just a lark, you know."

Hastur rolls his eyes dramatically and snatches the bottle out of Ligur’s offering hand, takes a gulp. Crowley smiles and stretches, looks over at Bee, who looks like they have dozed off. It takes him a second to notice the new boy sitting just a little out of his field of vision, just behind Bee. The candlelight barely manages to illuminate his facial features, his round face, dark circles under the eyes, eyes reddened as if he had cried just recently. He seems about Crowley's age. Crowley blinks slowly, and the boy is still there. His hair is a light blond, almost white. He looks sad, Crowley thinks. _And cute_ , a voice in the back of his head seems to insist on throwing in.

Crowley keeps staring, and doesn't notice the banter in the background die down. Doesn't see Bee blinking and rubbing their eyes. The boy hasn't moved at all, is keeping his eyes trained on Hastur and Ligur. Were it not for the slow rise and fall of his chest and his eyes, which have now started to take in the rest of the room, he would look almost like a statue. The boy keeps looking around, and turns his head slightly. He is wearing a sweater in an awful muddy brown color, a grey shirt peeking out from underneath. His eyes fix on Crowley, looking him up and down. When their eyes meet, all the air is punched out of Crowley's lungs, the look in the boy’s eyes too soft, too sad, like his soul has leaked out in these two spots. He feels captured by the gaze, drawn in. He can’t look away and he finds he doesn't really want to either, until the boy’s jaw drops slightly in an unspoken "oh." And Crowley's eyes instinctively wander down his face to the slight parting of his lips.

There is a touch on his shoulder. "Earth to Crowley!" Ligur says, and snaps his fingers in front of Crowley's face. "Why are you staring like that?"

Crowley shakes himself from the magnetic pull and turns to face Ligur. He wants to make a snarky remark about being right to stare, what with some random kid he's never seen before turning up without a sound and just... sitting next to him. But when he sees Ligur's confused and slightly worried expression, the remark dies on his tongue. He opens his mouth but aside from a soft "ah," no sound comes out.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a second, then glances over at the boy again. He's still there, staring back at him in wonder. Crowley grunts and lets the hand drop to his lap.

"Crowley?" Bee starts, "Are you okay?"

"Nh, yeah. Too much to drink. I think. Think Im hallucinatin' or something." 

The floor creaks as he struggles to get up. He snatches up his lighter that he had tossed on the floor carelessly earlier and shoves it in his pocket. Looks at the time on his phone. 12:43am.  
"I think, I think imma go home now. Get some rest, puke this shit outta my body. Or something like that."

He takes a step back and waves at the three others, who just sit and stare at him. Crowley hasn't left early in what feels like years. The boy has gotten up as well, and is now standing in the middle of the room, looking at Crowley, unblinking. If possible, he looks even sadder than before, his eyes are burning in their intensity.

"Your candles-" Ligur says.

"Keep ‘em."

"Do you think you'll find you way home on your own?" Bee asks, voice tinged with worry. They start to get up as well, but Crowley waves them off. He's still got his eyes on the strange boy the others can't see.

"It's not that far, I'll manage. It’s still early, don't let me ruin this for you."

He keeps standing there, tears his eyes away from the hallucination and tries to smile reassuringly at Bee. The boy takes a step towards Crowley and he flinches.  
"Uh, alright. Okay. Ciao."

He turns and stumbles through the rubble of the burned down building, and out the window, almost tumbles down the makeshift walkway leading away from the window, catches himself. He manages to get down without hurting himself, heads for the hole in the fence. Once out on the street again, he takes a shivering inhale, exhales slowly. His breath makes tiny fog clouds. 

When Crowley turns back towards the building he finds the boy standing close to him, looking around the dim street in silent wonder, before his eyes find Crowley's face again. Crowley stares back, watches in fascination as the hallucination opens and closes his mouth. It looks as if he's struggling to find his voice. Crowley scoffs. He isn't even that drunk. And he's never hallucinated before.

"Well, there's a first for everything I guess," he tips an imaginary hat, bows, and turns on his heel, starting towards his home. 

"Wait," a voice behind calls after him. It sounds like it's about to crack, from too much emotion, or from not having talked in a long time. But it's a nice voice. Crowley stops, throws his head back and groans. Of course it's a nice voice. He turns back to look at the boy once more.

"Seems like my mind is really intent on making you cute, huh?" he mumbles. Allows himself one last look at that pretty face before he goes home and falls asleep. When he wakes up, everything will be normal again. No more hallucinations of cute boys looking at him with wide, sad, innocent eyes.

"Shame though. You'd be my type."

"Are you talking to me?" the boy asks, and takes a few more steps to catch up with Crowley. He follows the movement with his eyes, decides he can allow himself this.

"I mean, I guess. More like talking to myself though, if you really think about it." 

The boy’s face lights up with something like relief for a brief second. Then the expression falters again and Crowley looks down at his shoes as they’re walking. Silence stretches for a minute.

“Do you mind?” the boy says then, and Crowley stops to think about what he would mind, scrunches his face up in concentration. He turns and looks back at the boy standing a few steps behind him. There is some sort of emotion hidden behind his mask of sorrow. Hope? “That I’m following you, I mean,” he clarifies when he sees Crowley's expression. “It's just, I haven't talked to anybody in such a long time. It’s gotten kind of lonely.”

Crowley hangs his head and kicks a stone away, a smile creeping on his face. “No, it's alright,” he nods in the direction of his home and walks on, “I’m not much of a talker though. But I can listen.”

Crowley keeps his eyes on his shoes, watches as another pair of feet catches up with him again. They are bare and look dirty, calloused. The bottom of his trousers look like they've caught on fire and been stamped out again. It looks odd on this otherwise soft and warm looking appearance of a person. 

There is a shift in the wind, a breeze carrying the cold on its back. Crowley shivers and hugs his arms around his waist, thinks the boy must also be terribly cold. Then he remembers the boy is not real. He looks back up at his face, finds himself eye to eye with the intense look again, almost stumbles over his own feet.

“It's strange…” the boy looks away and forward, “to think I haven't left the building all these years. I can't explain why. Maybe because I never had a reason to.”

_And I’m reason enough?_ , Crowley thinks, pulls his shoulder up in somewhat of a shrug and makes an agreeing sound.

They are turning the corner to his street now and Crowley realizes with a settling feeling of dread that this means goodbye.

“It’s been so long since anybody has even seen me,” the hallucination muses and his face distorts into something faraway, he looks incredibly fragile, lonely. Something splinters in Crowley's chest, leaving tiny and sharp pieces, and he has the urgent desire to grab the boy, embrace him in a hug, wash the sorrow off his face. He doesn't.

"Do you want to come in?” he asks before he can give himself the chance to feel silly about it. “It’s cold out and, and you get to talk to me some more.” He pushes his hair away from his face, looks down at his hands. The only reply is a soft sniffle. He doesn't dare look up to see any emotion on the boy's face.

_He's not even real. Calm down._

It takes him a second to find the keys in his backpack, unlock the door, but at last he does, leans down and unties his shoes. When he straightens up again, the boy is already standing in the hallway, looking around in childlike wonder. Crowley leads him to his room, careful not to make any noise on his way there.

Crowley opens the door to his room and drops his backpack on the floor, makes a beeline for the bathroom. There is a fear lodged in his belly that he will turn back around and the hallucination will have disappeared already, but when he follows the urge to turn back around to check, the boy is still standing there, hands twisted in front, looking for all the world like he hasn't set foot in a normal room in years.

Crowley closes the bathroom door to get ready for bed with a small smile. As he brushes his teeth, a glint of gold in the mirror catches his eye and he is reminded of the ring adorned with wings he had all but forgotten about. In the light of his bathroom, it shines even prettier than in the cold brightness of his flashlight. He pulls it off of his finger, opens a cupboard filled with string and leather bands and hair ties. 

He pulls out a long leather band, threads the ring on it, and ties a knot. He pulls the necklace over his head and around the toothbrush sticking out of his mouth. The gold looks better on his chest than it had on his finger, resting between the big coils of a snake winding around his upper body, down his arms. 

Crowley presses his hand flat over the ring, feels the cold press of metal against his bare skin. Then he lets his hand trace the form of the snake, down to the big moth resting on his ribcage. The ring fits right there, with its gold wings.

Suddenly, the boy pops back into Crowley's mind again and he searches for a sleeping shirt frantically, spits the last remains of toothpaste into the sink, and pulls the door open again as he shrugs into the shirt, his heart beating too quickly.

The boy is still there. He is standing at Crowley's workspace now, leaning in and studying the pictures that are pinned against the wall above the table. When the door clicks shut, he lifts his head in recognition, not quite turning around.

"These pictures are quite lovely," the boy mutters, almost too quiet to be heard, almost a whisper. Crowley walks up behind him and looks over his shoulder. The hallucination had been looking at a snapshot Crowley had only recently hung on this wall, a memory together with Anathema at a tattoo parlor. He's grinning into the camera, a stranger bent over his arm and carefully drawing the intricate lines of a part of his tattoo. Anathema is holding the camera, grinning like a maniac as well. She's holding up her right wrist, showing off what is presumably a fresh tattoo. Some sort of sigil neither Crowley nor her parents could talk her out of getting.

He leans forward and taps his finger underneath his grinning face. "This was a hell of a lot more painful than I let on here," he chuckles. The boy smiles in response and for a second he looks much more real than he had before. Crowley's heart stutters over a heartbeat and he curses his brain for making up this particular hallucination.

"So anyway, imma go to bed now. It was nice to meet you, though quite disturbing as well." He nods jerkily, and climbs onto his bed. When he turns the boy has moved towards his bed as well.

"It was very pleasant to meet you, as well. Thank you for inviting me in, I'm afraid it was quite chilly outside." He looks wistfully out the window, towards where Crowley knows the burned down bookshop stands. Then he looks down at Crowley and the corners of his mouth quirk upwards, almost a smile if it weren't for the look in his eyes. There is a fondness there.  
Crowley feels his ears growing warm and pulls the blanket up over his head. "Night," he bites out while he squeezes his eyes shut.

"Good night, dear," comes the reply, muffled by the comfort of the blanket around Crowley's head. He lets a small smile play around his lips. He thinks of gold rings, and bare feet on cold concrete, a melancholy embedded into innocent eyes.

————————————————————————

Crowley has a pleasant dream, of a boy his age who smiles at him with bright eyes. His blond hair catches the rays of sunshine coming in through the window behind him. It looks almost like a halo, like he is an angel who has floated down to grace Crowley. He has never seen anything more beautiful.

The boy stretches his hand out and caresses Crowley's cheek gently. His fingers leave behind a warm, tingling sensation and Crowley leans into it. The boy opens his mouth to say something, a beautiful smile still playing around his lips. And starts singing Bohemian Rhapsody so loudly it hurts Crowley's ears.

He startles and wakes up, smashes down on the snooze button on his phone. Why the hell is it laying right next to his head, anyway? And why is the alarm ringing on a Saturday morning during holidays? Crowey groans and presses the heels of his hands down on his eyes. He's wearing a t-shirt, and it's wrapping around his body in a very uncomfortable way. He wants to be rid of it.

Crowley sits up, eyes still closed from sleep and refusal to accept he's up now. He had had a nice dream, maybe if he can go back to sleep quickly he can finish the dream. He tugs at the hem of his shirt and starts pulling it over his head, when he hears a tiny cough.

"Good morning. I do hope you've had a pleasant night." 

Crowley freezes mid-movement, stuck halfway in between having his shirt on and pulling it off. He opens his eyes, only sees the black of the shirt. Pulls it back down over his chest frantically, and stares at the boy sitting on his chair at his table, looking for all the world like he's meant to be there.

There's about a million thoughts in his head, and he doesn't manage to form a single question concerning any of these thoughts. Instead, he mutters "What the fuck."

"You know, I've been doing some thinking about this situation. I've had all night, after all," the boy chuckles. There is no smile on his face. He opens his mouth to keep talking but Crowley cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

"No, actually, what the fuck? You're not real, you're just a hallucination! I'm not drunk anymore, why are you still here?" The boy looks like Crowley has just kicked a puppy in front of his eyes.

"I can assure you, I am not just a hallucination. I understand how you might be inclined to think so, though." He looks just like in Crowley's dream. Pale skin, blonde hair that catches the light shining through the window. There is, however, no playful smile tugging at his lips, just the deep sorrow from last night. "You summoned me last night."

Crowley's mouth drops open. "I wha?" He supposes the boy did appear immediately after Crowley had "summoned" the ghost of the boy who died in the bookshop. But it still seems much more probable that he is simply going crazy. Maybe he's still sleeping.

"Yes, indeed. And it seems - why are you pinching yourself? It seems when you summoned me, you forgot to, well, you forgot to let me go. Or maybe there is some other reason, I’m not sure, I heard you talk about letting go though, and you didn't. So I assume I am stuck here with you until, until you let me go or I move on, I suppose!" he makes a vague gesture with his hand and laughs, a little too loudly, a little too forcefully.

Crowley pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes for a second. Then he opens them again, looks the boy in the eyes. He doesn't want to admit it, but he's glad the boy is still there. Now, in the daylight, the brown of his sweater looks much warmer, the circles under his eyes don't look quite as dark. The shirt peeking out from underneath the soft-looking sweater is a cream color. 

"Alright," he says slowly, "I summoned you, and it actually worked. And because I'm the one who summoned you, I'm the only one who could see you?" The boy shrugs and nods. His hair is so blonde it's almost white. It suits him.

"Okay. Coolio. Uh, what's your name? You are the one who died in the fire 19 years ago, right?" Crowley tries very hard not to think about all the embarrassing things he said last night. His brain goes to a full stop when he remembers he told the guy he was his type. The blood rushes to his cheeks in a matter of seconds.

"I am. My name is Aziraphale Fell."

"Aziraphale, huh?"

"Yes, and you are?"

"Oh, right. Anthony J Crowley, but everybody just calls me Crowley."

"Anthony is a perfectly nice name, though."

"Nh, whatever." The blush won't go away. "Wait, you said I need to let you go or help you move on?"

"Well, technically I said I'm stuck with you until you let me go or I move on." The boy - Aziraphale, looks down as he wrings his hands together.

"Yeah, same thing. So I'll help you move on then! You won't need to be stuck on this shithole of a planet anymore and I won't need to convince my friends to do the exact same thing we did yesterday again. I'd never hear the end of that." He rolls off his bed in what he hopes is a cool and casual way, but it probably ends up looking more like he's about to fall and barely catches himself. 

"You just believe me this easily?" Aziraphale asks incredulously. He rises from where he was sitting on the chair. There is not a dent in the cushion. Crowley chews on his bottom lip and thinks for a second.

"No." Aziraphale nods jerkily and twists his hands together again. "But I have some ideas how we can figure out whether this is actually real or just me going crazy. For now, I'm assuming it's real." Aziraphale's face lights up and Crowley can't help but smile back. 

"So we do this, yeah? We'll make you move on. Until then, you can stay with me and keep me company." That sounds a lot more desperate than Crowley had meant for it to sound. He flexes his jaw and forces a confident smile, holds out his right hand. "Let's call it an arrangement!"

"There's not much good you'd get out of it," Aziraphale hesitates. Crowley just shrugs in reply. Aziraphale seems to think for another second, then he reaches out to shake Crowley's hand.

Their hands pass through each other and a tingling feeling, something like a shiver, passes through Crowley's entire body, starting at his arm. His teeth clack and he shakes himself.  
"Well, that was strange. Anyways, nice to meet you, Aziraphale. For real this time."

Aziraphale beams at him in response, the sadness disappears from his face, and Crowley's entire world seems to float for a second.


	2. Graveyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley visit the town's graveyard, hoping to find Aziraphale's grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's chapter 2 y'all!! If everything goes to plan, this entire story will be finished by October 31st, I can't promise I'll make it on time, though.
> 
> I'll be uploading art for every chapter of this (and some additional art like character designs and more scenes from the story) on [my tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/call-of-the-ocean)

They head off to the town’s graveyard that same day. Crowley had watched a show about ghost hunters once. Or, more accurately, slept through half of the one episode Anathema had forced him to watch. But he remembers them burning the bones. That’s probably what makes ghosts move on, and it’s their best bet.

Aziraphale stands in a corner of the garage and twists his hands nervously as Crowley readies his motorcycle. “Are you sure,” he starts, then interrupts himself. “It’s just, these machines seem dangerous. What if you get into an accident and hurt yourself? You could, you know...” he gestures at himself.

“Then we’d be ghosts together until _my_ bones get burned.” Crowley turns his head to wink at Aziraphale, who presses his lips together and turns his head away with a furrowed brow.

“I still don’t think-” he takes a few steps forward, circling around Crowley and the motorbike and stands opposite of him. Hesitant eyes travel along all the bike’s beautiful curves and he squints them together slightly, as if the bike was an animal not to be trusted. “-that’s the way this will work. I died in a fire, remember? My bones are probably already burnt.”

Crowley bites his lip in contemplation. Then he pulls one shoulder up in a noncommittal gesture, picks his helmet up from where it had been resting, pulls it over his head and flips the visor up. The worn leather of the jacket feels soft as he shrugs into it, pulls the bike out of the garage. Aziraphale follows him outside. He closes the garage door and lets his legs carry him back to the motorcycle and the waiting ghost.

“What harm will it do, Aziraphale? It’s our best bet. Now hop on, let’s go search for some bones.” There is still some hesitancy on Aziraphale's face, his brow furrowed. “Unless you have a better idea?” Crowley adds, the tone of his voice turning into something teasing. 

Aziraphale's hands are twisting in front of his soft belly, but then he shakes his head and closes the gap, stands so close to Crowley he can almost feel the breath on his face. But Aziraphale doesn't actually need to breathe. He is taken aback for a second, and his eyes are surely blown wide, his cheeks red at the invasion of personal space. Crowley is glad his helmet is on, he can just – and he flips down the visor and hides his face from Aziraphale.

“Alright,” the sound is muffled behind the helmet. He’s an idiot. “You can't touch me, so I assume–” Aziraphale frowns at him and leans even closer, like he wants to hear what Crowley says better. Crowley leans back and scrambles to flip the visor back up, wills his blood to stay where it's supposed to be, not rush to his cheeks. “I said,” he sighs, “You probably won't be able to wear any protection, right? Because you can't touch anything?”

There is a smile lighting up Aziraphale’s face, it's unexpected and completely disrails Crowley. He's pretty sure his cheeks have grown red now, despite his best efforts he can feel the warmth reflected back at him through the helmet. 

“What would I need protection for? I can't die, now can I, my dear?” He really needs to stop saying dear.

Crowley sputters a few incohesive consonants and gestures with the hand that's not clutching the motorcycle. “I meant, yeah I also meant a helmet but the wind can get pretty cold too, can you feel that? Ng, I mean, I can't offer you a jacket, right?” 

Aziraphale opens his mouth, inhales as if to speak, and his eyes drift away as if in shame. He closes his mouth again, hesitantly, and blinks. “I don't feel the cold… Well–” The smile has vanished from his face and Crowley wants nothing more than to bring it back. Maybe Aziraphale will have fun driving, that could cheer him up. 

“I always feel cold. Comes with being dead, I suppose.”

And now there is an odd feeling inside Crowley's stomach, a dread settling deep down. 

_I should have never brought this up._

He sucks at his teeth, tries for a smile. “Uh, sorry. So, do you wanna…?” He points to his bike, and Aziraphale nods slowly, looks back at him, then at the machine.

Crowley swings his leg over the back of the seat, flips the visor of his helmet down once again. The seat sinks down beneath his weight, a familiar feeling. The tense muscles in his back loosen. He is at home here, he has done this often. Driving people around is fun.

Then he can hear Aziraphale groan slightly, trying to climb onto the back of the seat. Crowley can't help the smile spreading on his face. Aziraphale is _cute_ , struggling to get on like this. But then Aziraphale settles behind him and there isn't the familiar sagging of the cushion behind him, no warmth from a second body being pressed against his. 

His heart is crawling up his throat again and he swallows multiple times to get it back down. 

“Alright then.”

The machine roars, sputters. Tires screech against the asphalt as Crowley starts and leans into an elegant curve to get out of the driveway. He hears a yelp behind him and then feels like he's been hit in the gut with a block of ice. His hands sway for a second and he gasps for breath. The cold doesn't go away. Once he’s turned a corner and feels safe to look away from the road, Crowley glances down at his stomach. Aziraphale seems to have slung his arms around Crowley in a panic.

His arms are pressed tightly against Crowley’s stomach. Or, pressed inside Crowley’s stomach? The grotesque picture of arms half submerged inside his body makes Crowley shudder as he looks back up.

“You alright back there?” He calls over his shoulder and gets a muffled “mh-hm!” as a response. The cold is receding slowly, until he only feels a cold sensation resting at his hip. 

There is a realization in the back of his head somewhere, clawing itself to the front. The first shock of sitting on a moving vehicle must have worn off and Aziraphale must have realized he isn't in any actual danger, yet he still keeps his hand there. Crowley’s breath hitches in his throat.

————————

The cemetery is only a few minutes away from his home, at the outskirts of town. It lies right by the forest, and there is a seemingly seamless transition between the two. The front is well-kept, flowers blooming on the dirt before the gravestones. Family members come here regularly to remember their deceased loved ones. The further back you venture, the more the graveyard looks like it could be used as a horror film set. The single stones are further apart, the foliage throws looming shadows over the entire place. Some of the gravestones are broken, tipped over. Most are barely legible.

Crowley waits for Aziraphale to get off (there are some more huffs and puffs and a coolness at his hip disappears), then swings his own leg back over the bike and pulls the helmet off of his head. They stand and look towards the graveyard in silence for a minute. 

"Any idea," Crowley says, and watches Aziraphale from the corner of his eye, "whether we'll find you... uh." He doesn't know how to finish the sentence without hurting the ghost.

There is a soft sigh. “Crowley, I don't know if or where I am buried. But if I am, I doubt it's…” he nods his head towards the well-kept graves. “My family never cared much for these things. And–” He cuts himself off and doesn't finish the sentence.

Crowley clenches his teeth and nods jerkily. “Then let's,” he manages. He locks his motorcycle, flips the seat up and pushes his helmet inside. For a second he considers removing the jacket too, but it's not very warm, and he still feels the cool of Aziraphale's hand deep in his bones.

Aziraphale has already passed the entrance of the graveyard and is looking wistfully at the first few gravestones when Crowley joins him. As he arrives next to him, Aziraphale sinks down next to one of the graves and lets his hand pass through one of the flowers. It shudders, as if caught by a light breeze, and Crowley's heart repeats the motion.

"These people are still loved," Aziraphale says and looks up at Crowley. There is a smile on his face, but his eyes speak of sorrow. He looks back at the flower under his hand, and Crowley can see the smile fade. "Even in death."

Crowley watches with a strange sort of pain in his chest as Aziraphale straightens up again, pulls at his sweater. He clasps his hands in his front and sighs. Crowley doesn't dare look in his eyes, scared of what he will find if he looks too closely into the depths of his eyes. Stares instead at the dirt between their feet. Crowley's leather boots, and Aziraphale's bare feet. Now, in daylight, it looks like there are red lines covering his feet, like burn scars.

"Let's go, then," he says. There's a softness in his voice he's not used to, and he clears his throat to get rid of it. "Don't wanna spend all day here, right?" The softness in his voice won't go away.

"Right. Let us, let us go!" Aziraphale turns away from the grave, looks towards where the trees get more dense, where the gravestones are overgrown by moss and vines, and starts walking in that direction.

Crowley follows him, tries not to think of the sadness hidden behind those soft eyes. His eyes linger on Aziraphale's back. Broad, strong shoulders covered by a soft sweater. He can see his ribcage rise and fall under each breath Aziraphale takes. Crowley blinks slowly and tries to piece together the odd reactions his body is having to this boy, this complete stranger. It feels like solving a puzzle in a dark room. Then he shakes himself and runs a few steps to catch up with Aziraphale again.

"So... how did you die?" _In a fire, you idiot._ Crowley bites back a groan of disapproval at himself. Aziraphale looks up at him, eyebrows scrunched together. His nose wrinkles and Crowley's heart leaps.

"You know that, Anthony. The bookshop burned down while I was inside it." 

Crowley scrunches up his own nose in reply. "Okay, first off, don't call me 'Anthony'. I'm just Crowley." Aziraphale opens his mouth to argue. "Secondly, why didn't you manage to escape? Bookshop isn't that big."

Aziraphale shakes his head and huffs out a breath. "What, are you honestly asking me _why_ I died?” 

“I– I mean, yeah? Sorry, I’m just. Urgh. Never mind.” 

They have reached the back of the graveyard now, and Crowley starts walking slowly, taking in each stone. His cheeks feel warm and he is glad for the excuse to turn his head away.

“It’s alright, dear. I just… I don't know, honestly.”

Crowley’s head snaps back up at that. “You don't know? As in, you don't remember dying?” 

The boy’s eyebrows shoot up, then knit together, and he nods. “I suppose I don't. Sure,” he says, and his face is a carefully blank mask. There is a spark of empathy in Crowley and he sighs. Aziraphale stops to look at one of the gravestones for a second.

“Alright. But we'll find you, and I’ll help you. Maybe it's best that you don't remember, anyway.” There is somewhat of a fond smile directed at him when he looks back up, eyes still full of some emotion Crowley can't quite put his finger on; and he needs to duck his head again to hide the blush that is surely obvious on his face.

"Have you ever met any other ghosts? Are there any here?" Crowley looks around for Aziraphale's name on the gravestones as well. Occasionally he stops to brush aside some vines growing over top of the names, some fallen leaves sticking to the wet surface of the stones. But among the names he finds there is never any Fell.

"I have not ever met any other ghosts. Though I am sure they must exist. I do, after all."

“But why do you exist? It's not like everybody who dies becomes a ghost, right?” He regrets the words as soon as he’s said them. Aziraphale’s face turns into something more of a grimace, he looks angry now.

“I don’t know, Crowley! Some kind of unfinished business apparently!” His expression reverses into a shocked stillness, like he had not expected to say these words. Crowley holds up his hands in a defeated gesture, trying to apologize. Aziraphale swallows multiple times, his eyebrows draw closer together.

“I’m sorry, I didn't mean to… That question was stupid, I know. Memory loss, huh?” Aziraphale's expression falters and he stares at him, mouth slightly agape. Crowley lowers his hands and stuffs them in his pockets, a suspicion growing in his mind. “Or do you remember what happened?”

Aziraphale seems to snap back into reality and averts his eyes. A blush creeps up his cheeks and he starts fiddling again. “Uh, of course I don’t. I’d tell you if I did. Or I’d have done something about it, of… of course. Obviously.” He won’t look into Crowley’s eyes.

“Of course, angel” he sighs, and if his voice sounds tired he just ignores it. If there is something Aziraphale doesn't want to tell him, he should respect that. No need to pry, they've barely known each other a day. Crowley shrugs and turns towards the next gravestone to inspect it.

“Uhm…”

“Hm?”

“Uh. What did you just call me?”

Crowley frowns at the unreadable inscription on the stone and turns back around again. Aziraphale's ears have turned pink. He's still not looking at Crowley, is instead examining his own feet with much interest.

“I don't know. What did I call you?” Crowley asks. There is a list of things Crowley could have called Aziraphale running along his inner eye. He didn't call him– or did he?

“I believe you called me angel? Why is that?”

The blood in Crowley's body seems to choose this moment to flood entirely into his head. So it did slip out. Fuck. He scratches his chin and shrugs, trying, and failing, for nonchalance. 

“Well, you're a ghost.” Aziraphale raises one eyebrow and nods at the obvious statement. His cheeks are pink as well. Crowley didn't know ghosts could blush. But then, he didn't know ghosts existed at all until this morning. “And I’m helping you move on. Right. So, then you'll be an angel. Just. Just one step ahead.” He will absolutely not mention the dream, Aziraphale’s hair catching the light like a halo around his head.

“Anthony, dead people don't turn into angels. Angels were created separately from humans.” Aziraphale crosses his arms and cocks an eyebrow at him. There is a smile playing around his lips now; the bastard knows damn well what he just called Crowley.

“Don't call me that!” Crowley hisses and scrunches his nose. He leans against the nearest tree and crosses his arms as well, lets his eyes wander over Aziraphale's face, the strong arms, the soft swell of his belly. His eyes jump to where Aziraphale's bare feet are standing on wet soil. _He deserves warmth,_ Crowley thinks, and his chest suddenly feels tight. 

Aziraphale snickers - he actually _snickers_. Crowley's legs are about to give in. “Well, if you're going to give me a factually incorrect nickname, I might as well call you by your actual name. Or would you prefer Tony?”

“That's even worse! That sounds like I’m a middle-aged man from the 70s!” Crowley cries and throws his hand over his eyes. Aziraphale laughs and takes a few steps closer, sitting down on the gravestone closest to Crowley. He feels his cheeks heating up again, peels his hand away from his eyes. He needs to get control of this situation again, Aziraphale should be the one blushing. 

“So what if I call you angel and don't mean the religious beings?” He leans against the tree in a very cool and sexy way and winks at Aziraphale. He _winks_.

A series of emotions crosses Aziraphale’s face, his cheeks are stained just as pink as Crowley's. In the end, his eyes look kind of watery. He blinks multiple times and looks away again. “You could do that too,” he says. It’s barely a whisper.

_Oh no. That wasn't a good thing to say._

“Or, you know,” Crowley desperately tries to get back to the lighthearted fun they were having just a few seconds ago, his voice is quieting down. _What did I say wrong? Is this too much?_

“What do you think of just ‘Az’?”

Aziraphale scoffs and looks at him with something resembling adoration, something so strangely similar to heartbreak shining in his eyes. Crowley feels a heavy weight push down on his chest as he looks into the watery depths of Aziraphale's eyes. 

The corners of Aziraphale’s mouth quirk up and he sighs as he gets up from the gravestone again. He brushes his pants off, even though they don't have a single wrinkle, couldn't have picked up any of the wetness or dirt piling up on the stone slab. A tiny light flickers on in the dark room, and Crowley can see the mess of puzzle pieces laying on the floor. Can see the tiny images printed on each one.

_Fuck. I’m falling for you, aren't I?_

“You can call me whatever you like, Anthony.” The bastard cocks an eyebrow at him in a silent challenge and Crowley has to keep his mouth shut to focus on breathing evenly. 

_Not him. Not so quickly. I can't have him._

“Let's keep looking for my name,” Aziraphale interrupts Crowley's thought process. 

He nods quietly and turns away, looking at the gravestones. Hugs his waist with one arm and scratches at his throat absentmindedly, at where a lump has formed he cannot seem to swallow down.

_Why so fucking quick? Of course I would fall for someone who is dead, of all things._

“Crowley?” There is the cold suggestion of a touch on his shoulder, a coolness creeping through every layer of clothing. If he closes his eyes and concentrates, he can almost feel the shape of a palm. 

“Hm?” He turns his head and looks at Aziraphale’s worried face. He pulls his hand away immediately and brings it down to pull at the fabric of his jumper.

“It seems you…” He gestures vaguely, “zoned out,” he settles on. “I called for your help, this one gravestone is covered in leaves and they are immovable to me. I can not read the name.” He does not mention that Crowley had been standing in front of the same stone for a solid minute.

Crowley lets the knot in his chest loosen up, forces his legs to turn around and walk their way towards where Aziraphale is now standing. He leans down and wipes the leaves sticking to the wet surface of the stone away. No Fell. 

He’s still crouching next to the gravestone, eyes set on the name. _Tiffany G-_ something. He can still feel Aziraphale hovering somewhere to his left, probably looking at him. He stares at his fingernails for a second, the chewed-down whites proof of his anxiety and constant worry; then he turns his head towards Aziraphale. He is looking at him, worry shining in his eyes.

“How old were you? You know… when you… _died_.” He tries not to accentuate the word, but it slips anyway. He clenches his teeth together and desperately tries not to let the slight tremor in his hands show. Stuffs his hands in his coat pockets once again to hide it and straightens up again.

“Twenty-three,” Aziraphale answers. There is no emotion behind those words, no hurt or regret. It's just a fact, one that Aziraphale seems to have accepted long ago. Crowley stands still for a long time, so long that Aziraphale turns his head in something like shame, embarrassment. Crowley wants to ask more questions, like _did it hurt,_ and _were you all alone in the bookshop,_ and _did nobody miss you at all? I know I would._

“Twenty-three,” Crowley repeats instead. Aziraphale would have been forty-two by now. Could have lived a content life with a family, had a job. Maybe he would have been a professor at Crowley's college, that would suit him. He'd wear these kinds of ugly old sweaters, maybe wear a bowtie. And Crowley would have fallen for him immediately anyway.

_Fuck._

He stands at the gravestone he freed of leaves and dirt, looks over at Aziraphale. Aziraphale is still looking away, at another gravestone perhaps. Maybe he wishes he were buried there somewhere, peaceful. Not here, with Crowley being awkward and asking hurtful questions. “I’m two years older than you can ever be.” He’s distantly aware that his eyes are too moist, there is too much emotion on his face. 

Crowley almost jumps when Aziraphale bridges the distance between them with a few steps, brings his hand up as if wanting to rest it on Crowley's shoulder. _Maybe,_ he thinks, _he doesn't mind me all that much._ Aziraphale shutters his movements though, letting his hand ghost over Crowley's coated arm. His face is wistful, a small smile playing around his lips.

“I’ve been this way for 19 years now, Crowley. You get used to the idea.”

He looks at his hand, not quite resting on the clothed arm, and Crowley looks at Aziraphale's downcast eyes, the way the setting sun highlights his hair so similarly to how it had appeared in his dream. Panic floods through his veins in an instant.

“Well, we're gonna get you to a better place. Let's go, keep searching.” He takes a careful step back and moves on along the little pathway they had been following. He can feel Aziraphale following him, the trees watching over them silently. They're both walking too quickly to be looking at all the gravestones, but neither of them slow down.

“Anthony… _Crowley._ Wait.” Crowley stops in his tracks and turns on his heel. Aziraphale stands a few feet away, twisting his hands. He is looking somewhere above Crowley's chest. “My family didn't bury me. I know they didn't bury me. You won't find my name on any of these stones.”

“How do you know? If you don't even remember your dea–”

“I _do_ remember,” he cries out, and throws his hands in the air. “I remember the heat, and inhaling the smoke, and–” he is blinking rapidly, breathing heavily. Crowley is looking at the rise and fall of his chest. “I watched my body– When they found me, they said–” There are tears swimming in his eyes.

“Please… Can you not ask me about it?”

Crowley can see Aziraphale's lower lip tremble ever so slightly, and is at his side again in an instant. His hands are hanging uselessly at his sides. He feels a stinging in his chest, at Aziraphale pointing out that he asks too many questions, or maybe at Aziraphale's pain written so clearly on his face.

“Hey, it's alright. I’m sorry for pestering you.” He lifts his hand, reaches for Aziraphale's. His hands are once again twisting at his front, brought up to his chest. It looks almost like a prayer. When Crowley reaches the hand, there is no resistance, but he stops anyway, as if the hands he is resting his hand on were solid. There is a coolness walking its way up through his arm. But it is a calming, silent cold. There is no bite in it.

He watches as Aziraphale drops his head down onto his chest, breathes deeply. His hands at his front have stilled and he is leaning ever so slightly into Crowley’s touch.

“You feel so warm…” he mumbles under his breath, and then, so quiet Crowley can barely hear it, “You feel alive.” 

His heart is beating quicker in his chest and he can’t pull his hand away, stands frozen. Not by the iciness in his limbs, but at the soft supplication, the silent plea for warmth. 

_He has had to endure this cold alone, for 19 years._

“Let's go home, Az. We'll find another way.”

_And if we don't,_ he thinks dimly, _I can keep you warm for as long as you need._

————————

He knows by the receding cold by his back that Aziraphale has gotten off his motorbike. Crowley follows after him, stashes his beloved machine away silently, pulls off the helmet and peels the leather jacket off his shoulders. He drapes the jacket over his arm and then turns to smile at Aziraphale. The drive home had been quiet, a silence draping over them like a heavy blanket, weighted down by Crowley's realization.

Aziraphale smiles back, though the smile is a bit wobbly. He is standing at the far wall of the room again, twisting his hands, his eyes flicking through the room. “I was wondering,” he begins when his eyes flick to Crowley and he notices he has been staring. Crowley leans against the wall with one shoulder and raises a questioning eyebrow. “What is that on your necklace?”

The question takes a second to load. After the events of this day, he had completely forgotten the ring he found on the bookshop floor. The metal has warmed up against his skin now and he barely registers it at all.  
“Oh, it's a ring I found in the bookshop!” He smiles and pulls on the string around his throat to show Aziraphale the ring. 

When he looks back up, ring dangling from the string, Aziraphale is gone. Crowley can feel a stone dropping in the pit of his stomach, a quickly rising tide of panic. He stares for a second, then grabs the ring frantically. 

And Aziraphale is back again, brows furrowed. “What just happened? Why didn't you react?” Crowley blinks slowly, aware of the fact his eyes must look like they’re about to fall out of his head.

“I'm… Let’s go to my room first.” he stuffs the ring back into his shirt, careful to never stop touching the metal. He cannot lose sight of Aziraphale again. There is a soft sigh, and a nod, and Aziraphale lets Crowley lead the way. The lights in the house are turned off, only the flicker of the TV in the living room illuminating the sleeping figure on the armchair. Crowley hurries up the stairs, avoiding the creaky steps, a dance learned many years ago. Aziraphale follows, quiet as a cat. 

There is an exhaustion creeping through Crowley's bones, some kind of weight having lodged itself between his ribs, the cold of the day and of Aziraphale still present in his fingertips, in his toes. His boots are off quickly and stay outside of his room, then he drags himself inside his room, waits for Aziraphale to walk through and closes the door again. He falls back onto his bed as soon as he reaches it, looks up behind him at the rapidly darkening sky. “Why is it so fucking dark already?”

He can feel Aziraphale approach carefully, and there is a stretched silence. “It is autumn, dear. The sun goes down earlier now.” There is a heat in his cheeks again, a soft flutter of his heart at the word ‘dear’. Crowley pushes himself up to his elbows, his hands, breathes in the smell of his own room. There is the faint memory of something burnt in the air, and the thing inside his chest twists like a knife.

He pats the spot on the bed next to him without looking Aziraphale in the eyes, bites his lip. The poor boy looks so uncomfortable, so cold, incredibly awkward in this room he had spent the night in after spending 19 years in a burnt down, cold bookshop.

_Does he even remember what a home feels like?_

“You also slept for quite a while today, so the amount of hours with sunlight shortens considerably.” He is moving slowly, fussing around with his jumper before he takes a seat next to Crowley, who sinks back down and lies on his back. His feet are dangling off the side of his bed and feel incredibly icy.

“I did?” He smiles at Aziraphale, who turns to look at him. He is sitting incredibly stiffly, and his face is drawn with exhaustion and the everlasting melancholy as well. There is the light of a street lamp falling through his window, illuminating part of Aziraphale's face, framing his hair in a golden circle. He looks like a sad angel, or maybe like the god of heartbreak. 

Aziraphale sighs and pulls up his feet, leans against the wall. He is looking up at the ceiling, swallowing. “I think I know what happened in the garage.” His eyes dart down to Crowley for a second, linger on his chest, where he knows the ring lies. Crowley lifts himself up on his arms and shakes his head silently, pleading. He doesn't want Aziraphale to acknowledge what had happened, make any stupid suggestions. 

“You can only see and hear me when you're touching my ring.” His mouth is a thin line, his throat bobs with the multiple times he's swallowing. There is a dagger in Crowley's stomach, and he can feel his insides leaking out, dread settling down in his bones. 

“If you just… brought the ring back to the bookshop-”

“Az…”

“-throw it away, hide it somewhere no one else will find it, then you, and everybody else, can be free of me!”

“Aziraphale. Listen to me.” The words are tying up his tongue, making it hard to speak, to swallow. “I will not dump you back into there. I promised I would help and I’m not giving up this quickly. I won't let you stay alone in that awful place forever. 19 years is more than enough time to be alone.” 

Aziraphale sighs deeply and lets himself sink further down, until he is in a lying position, feet still tucked up on the bed. Crowley leans back again and rolls his head over to look into Aziraphale’s eyes. The deep watery blue startles him once again and the next words roll off his tongue without his permission, almost a whisper. “And if we never find a way to get you to move on, I still won't let you be alone. You have me now, alright?”

The ghost of a smile is creeping on Aziraphale's face, and he looks almost like he is trying to hold back tears. Crowley hopes it’s gratitude making the boy’s eyes well up, not dread at perhaps having to spend a lifetime with Crowley. “In that case...” He whispers back, drifts off. He seems hesitant, eyes flicking between Crowley's. _He is so close,_ Crowley lets his gaze drift over every little detail in Aziraphale's face, the way there is a slight upturn to his lips and nose, how his eyelashes catch the light, the tiny wrinkles that have not yet settled any deeper into his skin and never will. 

_If he were alive, could I feel his warmth from this distance? His breath on my skin?_

The silence stretches on forever, until Aziraphale starts again, voice hoarse and hesitant. “In that case, would you-” he is turning his head away, looking at the ceiling. Crowley can watch as the blood rushes to his face, settles in his cheeks and ears as a light pink dusting of color. 

“Would you hold my hand again?”

There is still a cold numbness in his fingers from being outside for multiple hours, from giving some of his warmth to Aziraphale earlier. But Aziraphale is lying next to him, looking soft and sad and slightly pink around the ears, and there are insects inside Crowley's intestines, eating through his stomach up to his chest, trying to get out; and he doesn't hesitate to reach out to where Aziraphale's is laying, let his fingers drift through the cold suggestion of fingers until his entire hand is covering Aziraphale's hand. He couldn't have stopped himself if he wanted to. The ice in his veins immediately starts working its way up his arms again.

He can hear the softest shuddered intake of breath and looks back up from where their hands are quite literally intertwined, can see the look of bliss on Aziraphale's face, the worry-lines smoothing out. A smile on those pale lips. Some insect flaps its wings against Crowley's ribcage, there is a warmth spreading through his body that has nothing to do with the cold hand against his, making his body cool down, and has everything to do with the feeling of soft tenderness flooding through his veins.

They lay in silence for a long time. Aziraphale had kept his eyes closed, and Crowley had kept looking at his peaceful side profile. His body is completely cooled down now and he has to bite down on his cheek so as not to let his teeth clatter. But the smile on Aziraphale's face, the sound of his soft and steady breathing make the cold worthwhile.

_I could stay here forever. Just let me keep you warm._

“Hey, Anthony?” Aziraphale says, eyes still closed. His eyebrows are scrunching together now, and he is turning his head towards Crowley. He hums in agreement, feels the muscles in his face mirror Aziraphale's smile.

Aziraphale opens his eyes and they are less watery now, more focused. “Didn't you say you needed me to prove I am not just a hallucination?” 

Crowley finds himself looking into the depth of the ghost’s eyes, feels himself getting lost in them, and closes his eyes to fight the gravitational pull. He feels the place where their hands interlock, feels the numbness in his fingertips, crawling all the way up to his arm and out into his body. The heavy weight on his chest, the insects squirming inside. The cool metal of the ring pressing into his chest. He opens his eyes again and shakes his head.

“I already have all the proof I need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here](https://call-of-the-ocean.tumblr.com/post/632612576528859136/chapter-2-graveyard-you-feel-so-warm-he) is the art for this chapter!


	3. Ouija

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the failed attempt of finding Aziraphale's bones, Crowley decides to ask a friend for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "this should be done before the end of october" lmao yeah right  
> so i realized i shouldn't pressure myself to finish things with a deadline or i'll burn out. i'm glad i finally got to finish this chapter and i hope you like it as well! i'll be working on the next chapters, but i won't make any promises as to when they'll be done this time.  
> i have, once again, made [art for this chapter](https://call-of-the-ocean.tumblr.com/post/634890586515767296/passing-on-passing-over-chapter-3-ouija-i).  
> CW: discussion of death and homophobia (if you want to know what's to be expected before reading, feel free to message me [on tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/call-of-the-ocean))

They lie next to each other for a long time, nothing but their steady breathing to break the silence. Crowley closes his eyes, lets his thoughts drift to a place and time where he would be allowed to have this without any constraints, any limitations.

A world in which they could hold hands and hug and he could feel warmth instead of an icy cold every time he touched Aziraphale.

There is a tiny stinging in Crowley's chest but it doesn't feel as overwhelming with Aziraphale by his side. He lifts his free hand and covers his chest with it, feels the beating of his heart. He can feel himself drift off slowly.

———————

Aziraphale had moved away overnight to sit down on the chair again. The warmth had begun to settle in Crowley's stiff limbs again, and he had found himself in a deeper sleep than he can remember, exhausted perhaps.

In the morning, when Crowley wakes from rays of sun brushing over his face, he can still hear Aziraphale's calm breaths and an involuntary smile spreads over his face. He breathes in the scent of his room, the hint of something burnt tingling at the edges of his senses, and opens his eyes.

Aziraphale is sitting on his chair, his head turned away as he leans back, looking at the big Queen poster hanging above Crowley's table. There is some kind of peace radiating off of him, contentment. 

“Good band. Ever listened to them?” Crowley's voice is gravelly, sleep still thick in his throat. Aziraphale doesn't jump or flinch, he just smiles and turns his head towards Crowley.

“Oh, you're awake,” He says it with a hint of surprise, the suggestion of a smile on his lips. Then he stands and brushes off his pants in what Crowley knows is a force of habit, not a necessity.

Crowley swings his legs off the bed and lets his feet dangle. When did he get rid of his trousers? He's looking at his feet and wiggling his toes in a daze. His eyes dart over to the heap of clothes laying on the floor.

“Alright, I’ll get dressed and, you know, _freshen up_ , then we'll think of a new way to help you-” he waves his hand around in a gesture that is supposed to encompass their entire situation.

Aziraphale nods and scuffs his feet. “I’ll wait here,” he mumbles and lets his eyes drift through the room again. Crowley gets up and watches him for a heartbeat, then shuffles off into his bathroom.

The toothpaste feels refreshing in his dry mouth and Crowley wrestles his shirt off with the brush still in his mouth. His eyes are still half closed and he scratches at his chest as brushes his teeth and then spits into the sink.

Crowley only realizes there's no clean shirt left in the bathroom when he's pulling on his underwear and trousers. He grumbles something under his breath and opens the door to get something to wear.

When Aziraphale hears the door creak, he turns back towards Crowley, and stops dead in his motion when he sees the lack of a shirt. He doesn't turn away either, though, just stares.

Crowley feels himself blush under the intense gaze and shoves his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “Take a picture…” he mutters, and now Aziraphale is blushing and turning away now. A sly grin sneaks on Crowley's face.

“Oh, very sorry. It’s just- I was just mesmerized by the tattoo. It is quite large, isn't it?”

“Yeah, took a long time,” Crowley shrugs and walks over to his closet to pick out a shirt. Will they be going outside today? Maybe he’ll need something warm, weather has been getting colder and-

“It looks... very nice.” 

Crowley decides to wear a tank top for the day.

———————

“You need my help?” the metallic voice from  
the other end of the line sounds confused, irritated, “with… a ghost problem?”

“Well, that's bad wording, but yes. I promised him to help him move on but have no clue how. I thought you might be able to help.”

There is a prolonged silence, nothing but static coming through. Crowley holds the phone away to look at it sceptically before pressing it back it back to his ear again.

“Anathema? Are you still there?”

He can hear something like a cough, a sniff, and then a croaky “Yeah, I'm here.” Another pause. “Okay, you're serious? You have a _ghost_ at your place? Alright, I'm coming over.” 

Crowley opens his mouth to answer, but there's a click before he manages to utter a single word. He puts the phone down and turns around to see Aziraphale looking at him expectantly. He's so close again, barely leaving any space between Crowley and him. Maybe ghosts aren't good with personal space. Or maybe-

Crowley smiles and nods. “Yeah, my _witch_ friend will be here in a minute. She might know more about this than me.” He heads to the door of his room again, his hand brushing through Aziraphale by accident. He can feel a shiver running through the both of them and smiles to himself.

_Almost as if we were shivering because we touched, not because of the sudden change of temperature._

Anathema is ringing his doorbell no more than five minutes later. Crowley rushes down to open up for her before anybody else gets to the door, but finds his father standing at the open door already when he arrives.

He's leaning heavily at the frame of the door, blinking multiple times while Anathema gestures wildly and talks with bright eyes. Crowley waves at Anathema and she waves back, tries to get past the huge man blocking her way.

“Sorry, I just-” She ducks under his arm and rushes to Crowley. The man closes the door behind her and turns towards Crowley, raises an eyebrow at him and nods his head sharply for him to get away. He takes Anathema by the hand and pulls her up the stairs.

“He's always so much more tame when you're here,” he grins and pushes the door of his room open for her, where he had just frantically stuffed all of his dirty clothes into one corner of the room. “Probably doesn't want you to think he's a _bad dad._ ” Anathema scoffs somewhere behind him. Aziraphale is sitting primly on the bed, hands in his lap. His eyes light up when the two enter the room.

Anathema stops in the doorway, her lips parted. Her eyes are searching, looking around the room and Crowley can see the smile slowly fading off of her face. She sighs and frowns, shrugs out of her backpack and lets it clunk to the ground.

“Were you just messing with me? I got so excited,” her lower lip is pushing forward and she's crossing her arms now. Crowley notices her eyes are still drifting around the room, passing right over Aziraphale, in a hopeful attempt to spot what Crowley had talked about on the phone.

Aziraphale gets up slowly, walking over to the two of them. He is standing next to Crowley now, watching Anathema. Crowley turns his head to look at him carefully, sees his frown, his drawn together eyebrows.  
“Will you tell her..?” he asks, eyes not leaving Anathema.

Crowley grins and sighs. “Yeah, yeah I will – Ana, you can't see him,” he raises his voice at the last part, reluctantly tearing his eyes off of Aziraphale to look back at Anathema again.

She raises her eyebrows, slowly turning to look sceptically back at Crowley. She squints her eyes together, then her face lights up like a candle.  
“Ah, that's wonderful! I brought a ouija board!”

“Wee- what now?” 

“Ouija! A ouija-board. It’s used for communicating with spirits,” she rolls her eyes at him even as she digs around in her backpack and pulls out a board that looks way too big to have fit in there. There is an Alphabet drawn on it, careful calligraphy in a wide arch. The numbers 0 to 9 are painted in a smaller arch above the alphabet. In the top corners, artfully written “Yes” and “No”.

She pulls out another thing, some kind of triangle with a hole inside, then picks up both the board and the… thing, and places them in the middle of the carpet. Aziraphale and Crowley stand at the side, watching her silently.

“Do you know what that is?” Crowley asks quietly after a while, leaning towards Aziraphale, who in response shakes his head.

“No idea,” he says. “Nobody ever tried to use this on me… or maybe they did and I just ignored it.”

There is the faint bubbling of emotion in his stomach, something warm and ticklish, that makes him want to laugh. “Course you did,” he does huff out a laugh. When he looks back at Anathema, she's cocking an eyebrow at him. Her eyes are glittering with excitement.

“Okay so– sit down, get out of the way!” Crowley pushes past her and sits on his bed, hikes his feet up, and rests his chin on his knees. He's grinning at Anathema’s excitement.

“Has your friend ever done this before?” the triangular disk is laying on the board now, and her fingertips are touching it lightly. She's sitting cross-legged on Crowley's floor and doesn't notice the boy looming next to her, looking down at the board over her shoulder.

“He _just_ told me he has no idea what that thing is,” Crowley grins. Anathema rolls her eyes again.

“A _ouija-board_! Okay, all he has to do is sit opposite of me, put his fingers on the planchette and guide my hands along the board toward the letters. Then I can see whatever he wants to say to me!” 

Crowley nods slowly, as does Aziraphale. He walks around her and sits across from Anathema on the floor, copies her posture, crosses his legs, and gently lays his fingers on the planchette. 

“There are also other rules, like, if he draws a pentagram I need to immediately burn the entire board!” She pauses and looks thoughtful. “I’m not sure if that applies here, though.”

The corner of Aziraphale's mouth is twitching and he slumps slightly forward. Crowley is pretty sure he isn't noticing it.

_He's absolutely adorable._

“Just get on with it!” he says, letting himself fall to the side, untangling his limbs and propping himself up on his elbows. 

“Alright! What is your name, ghost?” Anathema’s voice has become husky, gravelly, as if Aziraphale hadn't heard her squeaky, overexcited voice just a few seconds ago.

He watches Aziraphale take a deep breath, and move his hands towards the “A” on the board. The planchette slides smoothly under both Aziraphale’s and Anathema’s fingers and Crowley can see both of their faces light up with visible excitement.

Anathema parts her lips, looks up at Crowley for a second, then stares intently down at the board again. Aziraphale, on the other hand, looks like he’s about to start vibrating. His eyes are blown wide and he's looking between Crowley and his fingers as he moves on to the letter “Z”.

“Anthony! I mean, Crowley! Do you _see_ this?” He is laughing now, full-hearted and happy, looking back down at his fingertips, then up at Anathema. Her eyes are wide as well, her mouth forming a silent “oh”, but she is absolutely silent, perhaps overwhelmed.

“I see it, angel,” Crowley smiles and leans his head on his hand. The insects are back again, but they feel lighter now, the weight lifted by Aziraphale's happiness.

“I can move this! I can move something!” His eyes are drifting back to Crowley and there's unshed tears shining in his eyes. He's still laughing, and Crowley feels a laugh bubbling up in his own stomach as well.

Aziraphale is finally done spelling out his name and leans back, looking pleased with himself.

“Az-I-raphael?” Anathema pronounces awkwardly, and Aziraphale looks scandalized. Crowley slides his legs off of his bed and sits down close to the board now, his chest heaving from the laughs that he's trying to contain.

“It’s _Aziraphale_ ,” he says, and looks at Aziraphale. He's smiling at him, and it looks unguarded and free. Crowley can't help but smile back. He rolls his head over to Anathema. “So now you believe me, don't you?”

She just nods with wide eyes and stares at where she must assume Aziraphale is sitting. It’s slightly off and she ends up staring through his left ear. Crowley chews on his lip and tries to hide his mirth.

“So…” Anathema’s eyes dart back to Crowley; she pushes her glasses up her nose and scrunches it. “What does he look like? Classic _bedsheet with holes for the eyes_?” 

There is absolute silence for a second. Anathema is looking at him very seriously, with her eyebrows are drawn together. Crowley manages to contain his delight until he hears a suppressed snort at his side, and suddenly he can't stop shaking from laughter.

“Okay, okay,” he wipes the tears from the corners of his eyes and holds his stomach. “I think I have an idea.”

The metal of the ring presses into his skin soothingly and he reaches down into his shirt to retrieve it. He grips it carefully, and holds it up triumphantly, closing one eye and looking at Anathema through the hole of the ring.

“Our bet is that this ring is the reason I can see Az,” he explains and slides the string off his head. He considers giving the ring to Anathema for a second, then thinks better of it and slides it on his index finger again. The string is dangling down awkwardly and he holds out his hand to Anathema. “We can check whether that's a correct assumption.”

Anathema doesn't even look at Crowley, just closes her fist around his finger immediately. Crowley can see Aziraphale straighten his posture in his peripheral vision and smiles. There is some kind of intimate gesture of comfort towards Crowley there.

There is a tiny, excited yelp next to his ear. Aziraphale casts his eyes down and smiles, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

“You’re Aziraphale!” she yells and covers her mouth with her hand. She closes her eyes, shakes her head and composes herself. “Alright, so you do actually have a ghost.”

“I suppose I do,” Crowley replies. He raises an eyebrow at Aziraphale, who raises his eyebrows back at him. There is this pull at Crowley again, he can't tear his eyes from Aziraphale's face, can't keep his heart from fluttering. “And I promised I would help him.”

Anathema lowers their joined hands and chews on her bottom lip. “What have you tried?” Crowley barely notices, still too caught up in Aziraphale's eyes. Aziraphale is staring back, a fondness in his eyes.

Crowley realizes Anathema is waiting for an answer, forcing his eyes away. Aziraphale's hands are still floating close to the planchette, like he's ready to use it again any second if he needs to. Like his fingers are desperate to touch something again.

“We tried to find his bones,” Crowley finally looks over at Anathema again. She's watching Aziraphale's hands as well, still chewing on her bottom lip. Her eyebrows scrunch together at Crowley's statement and she looks up at him. 

“What for?”

“Uh, well. I thought I remembered to burn the bones of a ghost in order for them to move on.”

“Oh, my God.” Anathema sighs deeply, rests her face in her free hand. She rubs her eyes and huffs out a laugh. When Crowley looks up at Aziraphale for help, he just shrugs. Anathema raises her head again, looks at Crowley for a long while, and then at Aziraphale.

“If you burn the ghost’s bones, you don't help them move on. You force them into the afterlife, which might result in them being stuck in purgatory forever. Or, even worse, in Hell!”

The soft fuzz of the carpet under Crowley's feet looks very interesting, he realizes. Though there are some longer strands he definitely has to pluck at. Anathema squeezes the one finger still firmly locked in her grip and waits until he looks back up at her again.

“It’s alright, I’m here now!” she smiles reassuringly, and bumps her shoulder against his. Then she bites her lip again and looks at Aziraphale, apparently lost in thought.

“Okay, so… I have a question.”

Aziraphale smiles politely and nods for her to continue.

“Do you eat and drink? And, you know, go to the bathroom?”

Aziraphale's polite mask crumbles into a real smile, his eyes crinkle and his lips purse slightly.

“I don't eat or drink. Oh, but I do miss it so terribly.” He closes his eyes, leans back a fragment, and smiles. “My favorite was always cake.” His eyes open again and there's a mischievous twinkle behind them. “And wine.”

Anathema seems nonplussed by his statement. “Do you change your clothes? _Can_ you change your clothes?”

“I– I admit, I've never tried.” Aziraphale frowns, like he's wondering why he's never tried it before. Crowley can't imagine him in anything but his silly monstrosity of a sweater. 

_But, then again, all of his clothes would probably suit him. Make him look soft._

“Try now!” Anathema urges, and leans ever so slightly forward. There is something manic in her eyes, a hunger to be sated.

Aziraphale goes bright red and fumbles at the threads of his sweater, eyes darting through the room. “I don't know…” he huffs, a nervous breath, something meant to resemble laughter. “Are you telling me to just strip in front of you?”

Anathema pulls back abruptly, shaking her head. “Oh, no! No, that's not what I meant. I thought you could just–” she snaps her fingers as her eyes dart over to Crowley. He pretends not to see, pretends the blood in his cheeks isn't visible. He can feel the heat in his ears. “You know?” she finishes lamely, and Aziraphale visibly relaxes.

“Oh, well, in that case–” he raises his hand solemnly and snaps his fingers. Nothing happens. There is the shadow of a frown hushing over Aziraphale's face. 

“Well,” he says cheerfully and lowers his hand again, “I suppose it's best this way. I’m not sure I’d feel comfortable in any other outfit.” Crowley huffs out a small laugh. Seems like he’s not the only one who can't imagine Az wearing anything other than this.

“Hmm,” Anathema’s grip on Crowley's finger has relaxed; she seems to run out of facts she had thought to be true. And Aziraphale seems to refute almost all of them. Then her eyes light up again, Crowley stifles a groan.

“Oh, I bet you can possess people! Possess me! I am–” Crowley lays a gentle hand on her shoulder and shakes his head softly when she turns to look at him. She tries to stare him down for a second, but gives in relatively quickly. She's never won at the staring game.

“Right, that's not what this is about. It’s about getting Aziraphale to move on.” She nods and her eyebrows pull together in concentration. It is silent for so long it almost starts getting uncomfortable. When she starts talking again, it's more serious.

“So, my best bet is, there's _something_ that's keeping you here.” She looks back up at Aziraphale. He draws in a shuddering breath and keeps his face still.

“Something that messed you up so bad when you died, or before you died, that you are holding onto this world unconsciously. Or consciously.” Her eyes take in Aziraphale, linger on his hands twisted tightly in his lap. “Even after 19 years.”

Crowley watches the carefully blank expression on his friend’s face, sighs deeply and pulls on Anathema’s hand gripping his finger lightly. She looks over at him without turning her head, and smiles.

“Alright, I gotta leave. Have some other plans for today. But it was lovely to meet you, _Aziraphale_ ,” she pronounces his name very carefully, nods her head in a tiny, mocking bow.

“The pleasure was all mine, Anathema,” Aziraphale smiles and leans back on his hands. Crowley watches as Anathema lets go of his finger, blinking a few times as if in surprise. Maybe she had expected she could still see Aziraphale, now that she touched the ring. 

Then she shakes her head slightly, blinking at Crowley again. “Wanna bring me to the door?” She kneels and packs up the ouija board and the planchette, then, after a moment of consideration, lays both things on the ground again.

“I think you have more use for it than me… Have something Aziraphale can touch.” Anathema smiles and clambers toher feet, brushing her skirt off. Crowley looks over at Aziraphale, who is looking at the board in silent gratitude.

“I think he appreciates that,” Crowley replies and watches Aziraphale blush, look up, and nod his agreement. Crowley jumps back up on his feet as well and gestures for Anathema to lead the way. She floats over to the door, Crowley at her heels. Before she leaves the room, she turns back and waves to where Aziraphale had been, and still is, sitting. He smiles and waves back.

“I have a question,” Anathema starts as they're walking down the stairs. The distant chatter of the TV can be heard again. Their feet are quiet on the steps. Crowley makes an agreeing noise.

“Az isn't here right now, right?” Crowley shakes his head. “Okay.” Anathema stops dead in her tracks, grabs Crowley by the arm. He has the urge to pull away, to shake her hand off, but forces himself to stay still.

“You've got a crush on him, don't you?” Her voice is raised in disbelief, still barely above a whisper, and there is a tiny smile playing around her lips. Crowley just groans and pushes past her towards the door.

“That's a yes! Oh my God, Crowley,” She catches up with him and punches him in the shoulder. “You've absolutely got a crush on the ghost haunting you.” 

“He isn't _haunting_ me, I offered he could stay,” Crowley crosses his arms and leans his shoulder against the wall, watching as Anathema slips into her boots and ties them up. She looks like she belongs in a different generation, or maybe some goth store. Which is basically the same.

Anathema straightens up and wraps her arms around Crowley. He closes his eyes, lays his head on her shoulder and breathes in the warmth, the smell of her. He can feel the fuzziness of her coat beneath his fingertips, and now the pain in his chest is back again.

He pulls his head up, eyes still closed, and lets out a shaky breath. His hands wander from Anathema’s back to her shoulders and he pushes her away lightly. “Talk to him,” Anathema sighs and rubs a tiny circle in Crowley's shoulder. He opens his eyes to find Anathema looking at him, knowledge written in every line of her face. “Or else you lose the chance to.”

Crowley nods and forces a slight smile, squeezes her shoulder reassuringly. “Alright then, off with you. Gotta figure out why Az looks so sad.”

Anathema smiles back at him for a long second before she turns to leave.

———————

Crowley comes back to his room, carrying a box of blueberries he managed to sneak out of the kitchen, to find Aziraphale sitting on his bed. The sunlight is shining through the window behind him, dipping him in warm golden hues. There is a tense silence; Aziraphale looks like he wants to say something, but can't bring himself to it.

The way he is sitting on the edge of the bed, crumpled into himself, he looks so small and fragile, and the insects inside Crowley's stomach start twisting again, an agonizing dance in his ribcage.

“Hey, Az.” he pushes his hands into his pockets and smiles at the small figure across him. “You okay?”

Aziraphale looks up at him like he's waking from a trance, and a smile spreads across his face, his posture growing more relaxed. There is a tiny light lit up behind his eyes, as if he is excited to see Crowley.

“Oh, yes. I was just-” he bites his lip and sighs deeply. “Just a bit lost in thought.” There is a suggestion of something more behind those words, something of importance.

Crowley doesn't want to be the reason for the deep sorrow to creep back into Aziraphale's face so quickly again after just seeing him have a good time, but if he wants to help– if they want Aziraphale to ever move on– he has to know what Aziraphale is obviously trying to keep from him.

There are three steps between them, and hundreds of words he would like to say. Aziraphale is smiling at him, a genuine smile, and Crowley's heart is hammering in his throat. He takes a step and another, and his racing thoughts come to a slow halt.

Crowley sinks down next to the bed, pulls his legs up close to his chest. He pops one blueberry into his mouth and puts the carton aside carefully. His right arm comes up to rest on the mattress next to Aziraphale, while his left hand idly draws patterns into the soft carpet.

He reaches out with his fingers, lets them brush through Aziraphale's thigh gently, carefully. Aziraphale breathes in deeply; closes his eyes.

“Listen…” Crowley whispers, voice unbearably soft. He keeps his eyes fixed on his hand, caressing Aziraphale’s leg. “I know you don't want to talk about it, and I really don't want to intrude, or… or pull you back into painful memories.” Each word holds as much weight as he can put into it, he can feel the emotion seeping through his tone of voice.

When he looks up at Aziraphale to check for his reaction, he finds a pair of eyes glued to him, lips slightly parted. There is something shining in his eyes, not the same sorrow as yesterday, more of a slight melancholy. Crowley jerks his head back down in an attempt to hide his blush and leans his head on his arm. He breathes deeply before he continues.

“... But I need to know what has hurt you so much that it's kept you here for almost 20 years. So that I can try and help you fix it.” The sunlight is warm against his skin, his fingertips are cold, and he closes his eyes against the swelling of an emotion in his chest he can't quite place.

There is something cold against the skin of his forearm and he opens his eyes again to see a hand resting there, the thumb rubbing soothing circles into the skin. Crowley doesn't dare tell Aziraphale of the cold, fearing he might pull his hand away and not touch him again.

Then Aziraphale shifts and slides down on the floor next to Crowley, tucking his legs up to his chest and circling his arms around them, curling up into a ball of safety. Crowley turns towards him, lets his eyes wander over his figure, taking in all of the soft curves.

“Alright,” Aziraphale finally says, but he rests his head on his knees as he says it, looking down at his feet. There is a moment of silence and then a sigh. “Where do I even begin?”

“We can work our way up to it, if you like. Tell me the bits that don't hurt as much first.”

Aziraphale turns his head and looks at Crowley with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. “Most things hurt,” he replies. His eyes drift away from Crowley's face again, settle on something far away, not in this room.

“I was the youngest of multiple siblings, in a family that... no, that's going too far back.” His eyes wander through the room, over some kind of timeline in his head.

“I had started working at the bookshop as a part-time job. It was fascinating to me, because there were so many old and precious works of literature in those shelves, not like those generic modern shops that would only sell best-sellers. There was history in there, and love.”

Aziraphale's eyes are shining with barely contained excitement and Crowley makes a mental note of bringing up books more often.

“It was a lovely job and I met lovely people. I was quite good at irritating them into not buying any books, I think the shop owner appreciated me for that.” He chuckles fondly at the memory, eyes fixed somewhere on the carpet. Then a shadow crosses his face, and his eyebrows pull together.

“There was this boy-” he sighs deeply, closes his eyes and swallows. “this boy, this young man, he was a year younger than me perhaps. He kept coming around, talking to me. He never wanted to buy anything, so the shop owner allowed his presence. I don't recall how it happened, but after a while, we spent all our time in the shop together and I-” 

He's struggling to find the right words, Crowley can tell by the way he keeps swallowing, closing his eyes. He doesn't need to say it, Crowley can tell by the look on Aziraphale's face that that young man had been more to Aziraphale than just a friend. There is a pang of jealousy in his chest and he grinds his teeth together, telling his heart to shut the fuck up.

“I fell in love with him,” Aziraphale whispers brokenly anyway. Crowley's insides twist into a tight knot, a knife digging around his innards.

_You knew something was up, stop being such an idiot about this._

“You know,” he looks up and over, drops one hand to rest next to Crowley’s and looks down at where their pinkies almost touch. “He used to call me angel.”

It feels like all the air is being punched out of Crowley's lungs, his heart has traveled up his throat. It’s impossible to swallow around. “I'm sorry,” he croaks out, wants to continue, but Aziraphale's fingers brush over his knuckles to silence him.

“It’s alright, Anthony. I thought I’d mind but I don't; not when it's you.” He smiles and pulls his hand away again, interlocks his fingers on his knees. Crowley keeps his eyes fixed somewhere below his own feet; feels the heat rising in his cheeks. Aziraphale sighs softly.

“There was one day, I was in the second story of the bookshop with him. We were just- having fun, really. I read him my favorite passages from my favorite books, he kissed me. And then my brother walked in on us– he, Gabriel, he looked at me with such… such _disgust_ and sent him away. I had hoped he would stay, but he left anyway.” There are lines between Aziraphale's brows, a wetness in his eyes. Crowley has to force himself to keep still, let him finish talking.

“I– well, I had a black eye the next day and Gabriel wasn't talking to me for weeks. And _he_ started to keep his distance as well. As if it had been me who kept flirting with him, desperate for his attention! As if it had been _him_ hit by his older brother for kissing me.”

Crowley shouldn't feel this twisting sense of relief about Aziraphale's anger at his lover, he knows. But some part of his brain tells him he would have done better anyway, were he in the lover's position. Wouldn't have abandoned Aziraphale like that; he could never.

“I started working overtime, stayed in the bookshop until after it had gotten dark many days, and came there on all of my free days. It was an escape of sorts. Gabriel knew I was at the bookshop, of course, so it wasn't _really_. But it felt safe. 

“So, one day a customer knocked over a candle, I assume. It wasn't found immediately, and some of the old paper caught on fire. I was alone in the second story and the fire spread quickly. I tried calling for help but the windows on that floor couldn't be opened. And then I looked out and I saw–” he is breathing heavily now, tears clearly welling up in his eyes. Crowley can’t stop himself from reaching out for Aziraphale, touching his leg in a comforting gesture. He seems startled at first, but then coughs out a little laugh, inhales unsteadily.

“I saw Gabriel standing on the street, looking up at the bookshop. And he saw me, I know he did, our eyes met. And he just– he just turned away, and left. He just left me to die!” The tears are falling down his cheeks now, and Crowley wakes from his trance, crawls over to Aziraphale and tries to wipe away the tears but he can't, he can't touch him.

Instead, he cups his face in his hands, as far as he can, ignoring when they sink into Aziraphale's face more than would normally be possible.

“Hey,” he breathes softly, so softly, and waits for Aziraphale's eyes to focus on his face. “I’m sorry I made you relive that. I’m so sorry.”

Aziraphale squeezes his eyes shut, leans against Crowley's touch and nods. “It’s alright,” he croaks out and lifts his own hand to let it rest over Crowley’s. 

Crowley sinks down next to Aziraphale again, letting his hands fall from his face. He's turned towards him, one arm on the bed, sitting so close to him now that he can feel the chill in the air around him.

“What do you think has been keeping you here then? I mean–” Aziraphale looks at him, puzzled. “Well, maybe it’s still a bit about the anger at your, nh, boyfriend?”

There is a fondness creeping onto Aziraphale’s face now, and he shakes his head in a small huff of laughter.

“No, dear. That relationship wasn't strong enough to keep me here for 20 years.” He’s looking up at Crowley through his eyelashes, still wet from the tears. “I let go of that lost love a few years after I died. Although recounting my memories does make me a bit nostalgic.”

He’s smiling at Crowley and there are still tears clinging to his cheeks and the sun is shining through the window and he looks so soft, so alive, like Crowley could reach out and wipe his tears away with his thumb. But he can't.

“Well, we can find Gabriel. Maybe I can talk to him, maybe that'll give you some kind of closure, hm?” 

“Yes, perhaps that will work,” he smiles at Crowley again, and Crowley smiles back. A silence settles over them, heavy in what has just been said, light with secrets now told. Aziraphale twists until he is turned towards Crowley as well and rests his head against the mattress of the bed.

Their faces are so close they're almost touching, their knees so close together they’ve gotten entangled. Crowley lets his eyes wander over Aziraphale’s face, unguarded now, open and honest and beautiful.

“You know, it feels nice to talk about all this, get it out. I haven't had anyone to talk to in 19 years.”

“I’m glad,” he starts, and drifts off. He has to pull back slightly, rolls his head around and rubs his eyes. “If there’s anything else you want to talk about,” he huffs slightly and scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I’m not very good at talking myself but I’ll be there to listen to you, if you'd like.”

There is a soft sigh escaping Aziraphale's lips, a smile spreading over his face. “I know.”


	4. eternity.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale and Crowley get to be soft a bit longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a sweet little bonus chapter. I wanted to add this scene at the end of last chapter but didn't habe the willpower anymore.
> 
> As always, there is [art I have made for this chapter!](https://call-of-the-ocean.tumblr.com/post/635612436911783936/chapter-4-eternity-ive-made-a-little-extra)

Getting a hold of Gabriel Fell is more difficult than Crowley had anticipated. He doesn't seem to be registered in any kind of articles or newspapers or websites Crowley might use to figure out his phone number, his address, any kind of information.

Crowley and Aziraphale try to find some information, but find nothing more than a line in an old newspaper talking about their small town’s hero, the man who made lots of cash and then came back to settle down. No address, no phone number, no “might have murdered his little brother.”

Aside from looking for Gabriel, Aziraphale and Crowley explore the town. They go to the museum the next town over, Crowley drives his motorcycle and Aziraphale clutches at him with no effect again. He lets out an involuntary laugh on occasion this time, though.

They spend a lot of time outside, in the rapidly cooling world away from other people, away from Crowley's father and the need to pretend Aziraphale doesn't exist. Crowley shows Aziraphale his childhood hideout, where he would run when everything at home got too much, when he had to escape for a while. He spent most of his later childhood here.

They climb the big, gnarly, misshapen tree and Az fusses about Crowley, worrying he may fall off. They hold hands, Crowley lends Aziraphale his warmth, and his damn heart won't stop racing, it won't shut up. They talk for hours and hours, until Crowley's limbs feel numb from the cold, until he thinks he can hear his joints creak when he climbs back down the tree again. They talk about everything and nothing, a freedom settling over them, the freedom of Crowley knowing Aziraphale’s story, no more secrets to be kept. Almost no secrets. (It’s not like Az has to know of the warmth leaving Crowley's body when they touch, has to know of the feral animal having made a home in his chest, feeding on his guts, ever-growing. But that's barely a secret, is it?)

And Crowley's heart won't shut up, has clawed its way up his throat and lodged itself there permanently.

A week has passed before Crowley remembers phone books exist and tiptoes down the stairs to retrieve it from the study. Aziraphale comes down the stairs behind him, quiet although they both know he doesn't need to be. The TV isn't on, the bottom floor is dead silent. Crowley peeks into the living room, the kitchen, the study.

“He’s not here,” he sighs and the tension in his shoulders relaxes. He can hear Az breathe deeply and feels the cold suggestion of a hand on his shoulder. He turns his head and smiles at Aziraphale, gestures for him to follow.

The book is old and hasn't been used in a while. When Crowley opens it, the pages are yellowed; it smells of dust and greasy fingertips caught on the pages.

“Alright, we're looking for _Fell_ … This might not be accurate anymore though, it looks like it’s old.” he lets the pages flutter through his fingers, stopping when he arrives at the letter _F_. He puts his finger on the page and lets it slide down slowly, eyes flickering over the names it passes. He turns the page, and hears an unsteady exhale behind him.

Crowley cranes his neck to look at Aziraphale, looks at the slight pink dusting on his cheeks, his parted lips. He is staring intently at the page below, his hands twisted at his front.

“You alright?” Crowley mumbles, letting his hand fall to his side, touching Az’s arm hesitantly. Aziraphale breathes deeply again, finally looking up at Crowley. His eyes are soft and warm, and it punches the air out of his lungs.

_Never stop looking at me like that. Please, please._

“I haven't been able to read… anything, since I died.” He holds up his hands, slightly transparent, just enough to see the light of the table lamp shining through. “I can't turn the pages.”

Crowley exhales on an “oh,” and smiles at Aziraphale. He tries to make it look reassuring, but it probably just looks heartbroken. He's got to get his damn emotions under control. Then an idea sparks in his head, rushing down all the way to his lungs. He inhales deeply, feeling his face light up.

“I have an idea. But let's find your brother in here first, yeah?”

Finally, they find a sign of him, an older number. Az’s eyes widen and his breathing quickens and Crowley decides to wait with calling the number until the next day. He jots the number down on a little piece of paper, folds it and puts it in his pocket. Then, carefully, he stows the phone book away again, removing any trace that he had been in the study.

“I’ll take care of this tomorrow, alright? Right now there's something more important to be done,” he touches Aziraphale's hand again, nods his head towards the door to motion for them to leave.

They're halfway up the staircase when Crowley hears the door click. He freezes for a second, feels his blood running cold, then he starts skipping the steps, rushing past Aziraphale and into his room. He shuts his door as quietly as possible, his breath huffing against the closed door unsteadily. He leans his head against the door as Aziraphale passes through it, stopping by his side.

“Wow,” there is a laugh caught in his throat, he forces it out and it sounds more like a cough. The adrenaline is racing through his veins. “Glad we were already back on our way upstairs.” 

“You don't have to be so reckless for my sake, dear,” Az reaches out for Crowley's hand. Crowley closes his fist around the spreading cold; sniffs and pulls his shoulder up in a half-hearted shrug. He turns until he leans against the door with his back, holding out both his hands. Aziraphale lays his own hands on top,and they both watch their hands pass through each other, phasing in and out with every small movement.

“Why are you so kind to me?”

“I'm not. I mean, I just- “

“You are.” 

He is. He knows he’s pouring all of himself out, ready to give everything to Az. Aziraphale could take his intestines, freeze him to death, take and take and Crowley would just keep giving, as long as Aziraphale stayed with him, would beg him to take even more. It’s probably an issue.

“Nh- forget about it.” He pulls his hands away again, pushes his back off the door and slinks over to his bed. He sits down more carefully than usual and pats the free spot to his right. “Come here, angel. I have an idea.” His heart is now racing for a different reason than the impending doom (probably getting a beer from the fridge right now.) He smiles up at the ghost in his room.

Aziraphale smiles back, then pulls his eyebrows together. He crosses the few steps in his little shuffle he always seems to do, and sits down next to Crowley. His legs are crossed by the ankles, his hands are folded in his lap. He looks incredibly lovely.

Crowley tries to reach behind Aziraphale to get what he's looking for, but it doesn't quite work and the dramatic effect is ruined by Crowley almost losing his balance and having to reach through Az to steady himself. He grumbles and clenches his teeth together against the cold running up his entire left arm, getting up to reach the little shelf above his bed. He carefully pulls a book away from the rest, then flops back down next to Aziraphale and looks over at him.

“So, this is the only book I have that’s old enough that you might like it. Do you know _A Room with a View_? It’s a new print, but I thought, you know...”

Az’s eyebrows are still pulled together, but his eyes are blown wide now and his lips are parted slightly. The crease between his brows smoothes out slowly and there is a fond expression washing over his face. The corners of his eyes look damp.

“Hey, no crying here,” Crowley says in what he hopes is a teasing tone. He knows his expression gives him away anyway, averts his eyes and stares at the book cover, before he snaps back into reality and looks back up. “Okay, move a bit, so I can-” they shuffle around on the bed until Crowley is leaned against the wall, pillow propped up behind his back. Aziraphale scoots close to his left, rests against the wall and lets his arm drift through Crowley's. He closes his eyes and holds back a shudder; welcomes the coolness spreading through his body. 

“Just close your eyes, angel. I can read to you,” Crowley's heart, still lodged in his throat, doesn't let the words come out as anything other than terribly soft. He swallows and looks down to his right. 

Aziraphale's eyes are closed; his eyebrows are drawn together and his lips are wobbling in an obvious attempt not to get overwhelmed by emotion. Crowley wishes he could brush the hair away from his forehead, wipe away the remnants of moisture clinging to his eyelashes. Kiss both of his cheeks and the pink tip of his nose...

“Start from the beginning?” Crowley breathes and scoots even closer to Az, who hums in response and nods his head.

So Crowley starts reading. He keeps his voice low and quiet, calm. Every once in a while he’ll interrupt his reading to look over at Aziraphale. Sometimes, Az is looking at him with eyes blown wide, eyes shining with that sadness that has gotten less over the past few days. Other times, he’s got his eyes closed, resting his head against the wall, or he is leaning closer to Crowley, shoulder almost brushing through him, to read along. 

Whenever Aziraphale sees a passage, a sentence that he likes, he lets out a delighted little gasp and repeats the sentence over. The first time it happens barely a few pages in.

“Oh, that is wonderful! _‘Have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are almost indelicate, and yet at the same time beautiful,’_ how lovely. I wish I had a way of keeping some of these in my memory.”

“I can get a highlighter, if you'd like,” Crowley says, a little taken aback by the melodic qualities of Aziraphale's voice when he quotes something, somehow even softer than his normal voice, calming. And he ruins the moment.

“A highlighter? I apologize, my dear, but have you gone crazy?” Aziraphale looks so genuinely offended on behalf of the book that a smile escapes Crowley. Aziraphale huffs back.

There is a blush spreading across Crowley's cheeks now and he doesn't know if it's the “dear”, or the scolding. “Well… I apologize for my rude offer,” he leans closer to Az and mocks his tone, “I won't mark the pages.” He knows he doesn't need them, the lines are burned into his memory now anyway.

“Would you like to keep reading? You’ve got a nice reading voice, angel.” _and I could listen to you talk for hours_ , he doesn't say.

“Oh, but so do you. If you'd like, please continue.”

And how he can say no when Az asks him politely like that, when he uses that word. So he keeps reading, and Aziraphale scoots even closer.

The sun wanders across the sky, dipping them in golden light first, and then slowly disappearing behind tree tops. Crowley could stay like this forever, though his throat is starting to go scratchy, his lips starting to dry up.

The book is nearing its end now; the sky is dark and the streetlights from outside shine their yellow-orange light through the window. Crowley has had to turn on his little reading lamp to decipher all of the words on the page. 

Sometimes he notices Aziraphale mumbling along some of the lines, getting more comfortable with each passing minute. The two different light sources shine through Aziraphale's skin, illuminating him from the inside. Crowley feels a cold brush against his shoulder, feels his throat clamming up.

“It...” his voice comes out as a squeak, and he clears his throat and tries again. “It is not possible to love and to part.” He pauses again, staring at the words on the page.

_Ah, fuck._

“You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you.” His voice is no more than a whisper at the last part. Crowley swallows heavily, sniffs his nose and clears his throat again.

_This was the worst choice in a book I could have picked._

“I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.” He lets his eyes drift over to Aziraphale carefully, noticing with a start that Az has leaned over and rested his head on Crowley's shoulder.

_So that was the cold brush against my shoulder._

He sees his closed eyes and softly moving chest, his parted lips. Crowley feels a surge of some kind of emotion through his body, a heavy weight pressing down on his organs, that little feral animal gnawing at his insides. Tears well up in his eyes. He hasn't seen Aziraphale asleep before.

Crowley looks back at the page he was just reading from and lets his eyes linger on the last paragraph he read aloud. When he sighs deeply and his shoulders move, Aziraphale's head moves along with them, and Crowley's heartbeat quickens. He moves carefully as he closes the book and puts it away on his little shelf above the bed. Then he settles down again, looking down at Aziraphale's head, the blonde curls that must feel incredibly soft to the touch.

He watches the head on his shoulder rise and fall along with his own breaths, feeling his heart beat rapidly in his chest. How come Aziraphale isn't passing through Crowley? Does it have to do with him sleeping? And why isn't Crowley feeling as cold as he normally does when touching Az? Crowley reaches out and tries to touch Aziraphale back, tries to feel something under his fingertips other than a cold breath of air. But all that happens is his hand passing through Aziraphale's arm once again.

He swallows down multiple times against the sudden lump in his throat and adjusts his position so that he is laying flat instead of sitting up. Aziraphale's body shifts along with him, and when Crowley settles down, Aziraphale sighs and wraps an arm around his middle. 

_Love is eternal. But you aren't, and neither am I._

There are multiple stab wounds in Crowley's heart and he's bleeding out, he's going to bleed out. He turns his head upwards and looks at the bottom of the shelf the book rests on now. The streetlight outside of his window paints yellow forms on his wall, dipping his otherwise dark room in something resembling warmth, something his fingertips have forgotten to feel. 

There are tears running down his cheeks now, he can feel them leaving scalding hot trails against his cool face. 

_I can't have him, I can't, I can't._

And yet there he is, his angel, breathing softly against Crowley's sweater, his arm wrapped around his waist. He might not be able to ever really have him, touch him or hold him or love him in a way he'd want, but he knows he's given Aziraphale an amount of comfort he hasn't had for years and years. And that should be enough, shouldn't it?

_But it isn't, you idiot, is it? You always want more. You always want what people can't give you, what you can't have._

It isn't enough. It could never be. But he exists, they exist, and Crowley will be damned if he doesn't appreciate every second he gets to spend with Az like this.

With the next breath of air, the next whiff of something burnt, Crowley manages to still his heart, pushing down the lump in his throat far enough that it is no more than a steady press against his ribcage. The animal that is his heart still threatens to break out, to rip his bones apart and crawl out with a wail, but it doesn’t. Despite everything, it doesn't.

Crowley closes his eyes against the weight, focusing instead on the soft sounds of Aziraphale's breathing. And if he lets his head fall to the side, letting his lips drift through the suggestion of Aziraphale's hair, who is there to blame him, after all? And if he drifts off with the taste of a forbidden word on his tongue, with the words “love is eternal” on a loop in his mind, there is nobody to read him but himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thanks to [Cherry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall) for helping me pick the book Crowley read to Aziraphale!

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/call-of-the-ocean) too!


End file.
